Reckless Bleeding
by Linkstar
Summary: Wolverine/Morbius crossover. Morbius is obsessed with a vicious serial killer. Wolverine suspects Morbius knows more than he admits, and vows to bring them both to justice


Darkness falls on the city like a slow burn poison. It drains the pulsing red of the day and draws that red into itself, replacing it with coldness, blue and black. The stink of the day seems to be chased away by the shadows, eaten up by the velvet of twilight. The smell of night is deceptively clean. I can see the filth around me still, but it is not as potent when I wake.   
Night after night I watch the city close itself up like a flower, the doors and window shutters close and people quicken their steps. Well, those that have something to fear quicken their steps. The predators stride through the night as if they own it. They have no reason to hide because unwary souls have ventured out into their territory. Darkness protects much evil from the eyes of the world. Its very nature is corrupt. Good people shouldn't be out. They should be asleep. No law can curb the darkness, diminish it, or stop the evil. Predators are top of the food chain, and no one can graze on them.  
Except for me.  
  
  
Three days ago, a sixteen year old boy was murdered in an alley not far from a squalid motel he called home. Hardly a newsworthy story in this day and age. People are murdered all over the world, every second, in every major city on earth. The boy's name was Liam Crane, and like so many other boys on the street, he sold his body to feed himself. His body was found in the alleyway. His hands were bolted to the wall and his stomach was ripped open in a large, red X. The story was remarkable because, just two months ago, three male prostitutes were killed in exactly the same way. So Liam's death was front page news. Editorials became his obituary.  
A black and white photo of Liam, a smiling blonde boy with a cherubic face, stared out at me from every newstand as I walked the streets. The city was in the grip of a carnival-like atmosphere in the week leading up to his funeral. Talk buzzed around street corners of a serial killer, and speculation rose. When would he strike next? Was it only queers he killed?   
I sat in a bar and listened to the chatter. Humans never like to know they're being watched. My own fascination with the murders was almost mirroring theirs. I tried to tell myself that I was above all of this, that I was outside it and therefore shouldnt care. But the more I resisted the more the story pulled me in.  
I walked to the scene of Liam's murder. Flowers piled high against the wall were he was found. Some were kneeling at the wall and staring, others milled about and stared at the spot where two holes gaped in the wall, the ugly scars left by the bolts. I heard no one weeping, no one cared that much. They wanted to be near the glamour of a serial murder. Pushing my hands deep into my coat pockets, I moved away from there.   
Liam lived in a tiny motel room about a block away. For some reason, I found myself outside the building, watching pairs or groups of people go in and out. I stalked back and forth outside, just watching. Did I look like a client? Did I look like a suspected murderer? Perhaps. But no one gave me a second glance as I stood on the corner opposite the little motel. I was just another pale pervert watching the boys. I stood as far away from the dim streetlight as possible, as I noticed a small grey car make its third cruise up the street. Either police or papparazzi. Either way, they were looking for something. The people coming in and out of the little motel were still oblivious.   
I drew myself away and plunged headlong into the human traffic, knocking shoulders with rentboys and their clients. I claimed back my annonimity, and I melted into the background. My sojourn into the living night was over. I thirsted.  
  
  
You dont realise it until you step outside your skin, and you look at it from afar: Humans are weak, pitiable creatures no better than the animals they kill for meat. In their fear, humans look ugly and weak. But a man never looks so beautiful as when the light goes out of his eyes. The face slackens and a look of calm settles over their features. I am the bringer of that calm.   
My name is Micheal Morbius. What some will call a vampire. I must drink blood to survive. Whatever keeps me alive screams for it, and if I deny it, the pain wracks my body endlessley. I tell myself I kill to stop the pain, because it's easier.  
This night, I opted for the easy option: A beautifully wasted junkie who came stumbling out of a bar. He was lanky, unwashed and graceless in his Crystal Meth induced high. I could feel his smell invading my nostrils, and I could see the look of menace in his faded blue eyes. His upper lip curled into a snarl and he lurched foward, closer to me. I let him come closer, hands clasped behind my back, a pleasant smile on my face. I inclined my head to greet him, and he did the same. He was breathing rapidly and casting quick, birdlike glances behind him. I knew what he intended, and I stood firmly, my face still the mask of politeness. He fumbled in his green jacket and then jerked his head up and looked at me through his dirty blonde fringe. "Got a light?" He asked as he withdrew a cigarette from his pocket.  
I nodded and he came closer, leaned towards me with his cigarette jutting from his mouth. I reached into my pocket and in one fluid movement, grabbed him by the neck. He didnt have time to struggle before I dragged him into the alleyway, and drank deep from him. My teeth broke his skin open and in my eagerness I tore some of his flesh away with my teeth too. His blood came up through the wounds in satisfying pulses, and I drank greedily. My limbs began to tingle and I could feel my eyes burning with the effort. He was ebbing away with each pulse, and the Crystal Meth heightened the pleasure. My temples throbbed and my vision swam. My skin began to feel alive again. He raised his hand in a last effort to stop me and I pulled away, dropped him to the ground.  
I felt my body gather up into itself and warmth spread within me. The unfortuate young man was still breathing, but just barely. I knelt down and he turned his face to look at me. "Don't be frightened," I whispered. "I don't intend to kill you." He shuddered and tried to speak, but a gasp came out instead. His lips were trying to form words, but the combined effects of Crystal Meth and blood loss robbed him of speech. I pressed my fingers to his lips and scooped him up into my arms. 


End file.
